[center][b]Location:[/b] Henderson's Ribs Fast Food Station, above the gloomy planet of [I]Nurr-Slugg[/i].[/center]

 Music is playing, but you can barely hear it over the sounds of people enjoying the good times, great food and fun atmosphere at this branch of Henderson's Ribs. Robotic waiters skate from table to table, laying out food with ruthless efficiency. The Nurr-Sluggis behind the counter drip a smile at each customer, taking orders and passing them back to the kitchen staff. It's a perfect, tasty machine stationed in geosynchronous orbit above the capital city of the Nurr-Sluggi people. In one booth, a screeching family of strange, feathered creatures enjoys a stop-off on their space-camping trip. In another, two amorphous aliens wrestle over their last remaining rib. In another, a vending machine discusses philosophy with a bored looking pan-humanoid. One particularly boisterous group pores over the latest issue of Space Friends Monthly, loudly proclaiming how [i]they[/i] are going to get their names in the next issue. The galaxy will know the names of Guerlaghiix And The Flaughjinks, just as soon as they can agree on how to spell "Flaughjinks" and what a Flaughjink even [i]is[/i].

 The crew of the [i]Quest For Flavour[/i] were seated at a booth near the window, giving them an excellent view of space, the planet below and, crucially, the spot where the ship is parked. Like many restaurants that see a variety of customers barge, slither, squeeze and melt in slow motion through their doors, the booth is designed with spaciousness in mind. It could seat a party of ten standard pan-humans, a whole tribe of Tuberlings, or two [i]Meganoxx[/i] that were very comfortable with one another's presence. A robotic waiter ripped straight out of a 1950s b-movie stands patiently, waiting to take the orders of the crew.

 "[i]We're gonna [b]crush[/b] negotiating peace between the warring tribes of Nellim Seven, boys,[/i]" loudly boasts Guerlagiix, or one of the Flaughjinks, "we'll blow that stalemate outta the water. Gonna punch that decade long conflict in the face [i]so hard[/i]! Yeah, boys! [I]Yeah![/i]"

 The waiter politely plays a recording of a throat being cleared.

 "Welcome to Henderson's Ribs. I am Walter. What will it be?"

 The menus, resplendent in brown and red and barbecue sauce stains, beckon.